


everything not black and blue

by volunteer_of_hufflepuff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Also slightly canon divergent, Canon Compliant, Critical of Albus Dumbledore, Discussions of Grey Morality, M/M, Percy Weasley Redemption, of sorts, with perciver + oliver explicitly joining the order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28381863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteer_of_hufflepuff/pseuds/volunteer_of_hufflepuff
Summary: Oliver Wood joins The Order of the Phoenix in the summer of 1995.It's an experience, to say the least..Or: Oliver Wood, dating renowned Albus Dumbledore sceptic Percy Weasley, embarks on a perilous journey to join the resistance against Voldemort. First step, after convincing the Order of your good will: awkwardly talk to your boyfriend's estranged siblings after having lunch with convicted (but not really) mass murderer Sirius Black.
Relationships: Oliver Wood & Sirius Black, Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood
Comments: 15
Kudos: 184





	everything not black and blue

**Author's Note:**

> hello, I hope you enjoy my self-indulgent exploration of Oliver Wood's likely involvement in the war, as well as a peak into the behind the scenes of Percy's actions during _The Order of the Phoenix_.
> 
> warnings for mentions of canon-typical blood purity, touching on the Dursleys and a wee bit of swearing.
> 
> enjoy!

The wind howls. The birds sing. And Oliver Wood is walking amongst the midday bustle of London, about to enter another world.

As he walks down another long-winded cobbled street, there is a worn piece of parchment clutched in his right fist, one holding the secrets to that world. Sure enough, when he looks up, a grime-streaked building appears between two otherwise normal grey townhouses.

Oliver unfurls the parchment, just to be sure.

_The headquarters of The Order of the Phoenix can be found at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place._

He steps forward onto the doorstep, grimaces at the truly grisly doorknocker, before rapping it against the door.

Thankfully, it is Professor Lupin who opens the door.

“Come in,” he says, politely. His clothes are less threadbare than they were when Oliver last saw him: it is a bit chilly for summer, so he’s dressed in a thin grey jumper and dark slacks.

Oliver steps into the hallway, grimacing again when he spots a troll leg masquerading as an umbrella stand sitting in the dark corridor. “Lovely place.”

“The Black ancestral home,” Professor Lupin says, with no small degree of sarcasm. “Try not to antagonise Sirius’ mother’s portrait.”

“Right,” Oliver says, as if that’s what he needs to worry about when joining a rebel group. “Will try.”

Professor Lupin leads him through a dusty hallway, into a dreary dining room with a cluttered kitchen overlooking it and an assorted group of idly talking people.

The wallpaper is a pattern of green and silver: more specifically one of overlapping emerald diamonds bordered by glinting silver thread, hissing snakes embroidered in their centres. It’s quite charming, if one was a fanatical pureblood Slytherin from the 1800s, which Oliver is decidedly not.

“This is Oliver Wood,” Professor Lupin says, to the people gathered in the dining room who have now stopped chatting. “He graduated in 1994: he was in Gryffindor and a Quidditch Captain.”

Now that Oliver is slightly less taken aback by the room’s rather unique decor, he starts to take in the assorted members of the Order of the Phoenix.

There is a scattering of people sitting around the table. Women and men, old and young, notorious and virtually unknown. And all the types of people who linger in the in-betweens.

He quickly notes three Weasleys - Molly, Arthur, and Bill - before quickly averting his gaze, noting a few aurors like Mad-Eye Moody, as well as Professor McGonagall.

Dumbledore is not there: Oliver, in all honesty, is slightly relieved. He does not hold the same level of distrust as Percy does in the man, but his brand of apathy is slightly off-putting.

“Hello,” Oliver says, albeit awkwardly, “I’m currently reserve keeper for Puddlemere United and was wondering how I could help.”

What he doesn’t say is this: he has a younger sister who is a squib, his mother is muggle-born. His favourite cousin is a muggle scientist, researching cancer treatments alongside her wicked talent at playing the cello.

There is a certain level of self-interest involved when joining a highly controversial rebel group, especially one your boyfriend is sceptical of.

(Percy Weasley does not trust Albus Dumbledore. This has become an undeniable fact of life, like Oliver’s lifelong hatred of peanut butter.)

Mrs Weasley's face breaks into a smile, though Oliver wonders how quickly it would fade if she knew he had just kissed Percy goodbye. "Oliver! Come, sit, there's a lot you need to catch up with. Stay for lunch, will you?"

"Of course," Oliver replies, with a soft smile.

And that is the beginning of this story, of how budding professional Quidditch player Oliver Wood becomes part of a rotating roster of people guarding a glass orb deep in the Department of Mysteries, of how his nights are spent crouched behind bushes or wrapped up in notoriously estranged Percy Weasley's arms.

.

A few more people trickle into the dilapidated dining room, among them widely detested Professor Snape and Emmeline Vance, who Oliver vaguely remembers as a famous dueller from the ‘80s.

Dumbledore still conspicuously absent, Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt takes charge.

“Good afternoon,” he says, the candlelight casting dancing shadows onto the table in front of him as quills are drawn and parchment pulled out. “Today is a regular meeting regarding general mission updates, distribution of assignments and the introduction of a new order member.”

Kingsley looks up, and Oliver feels as if he has been pinned to his seat. Kingsley’s dark gaze is steady, calm, but undeniably piercing.

“Oliver Wood, please introduce yourself.”

Oliver thinks back to Professor Lupin’s splendid introduction minutes earlier. “I graduated Hogwarts in 1994 after being Gryffindor Quidditch Captain for four consecutive years. Currently, I’m Puddlemere United’s reserve keeper.” He takes a steadying breath, aware of everyone’s attention on him. 

It’s unnerving, being the focus of some of the most powerful wizards and witches in Britain. 

“When I heard of Harry talking about Voldemort being back, I wrote to Professor Lupin as he was the only competent Defence teacher I ever had. I agreed to join the Order because I have a vested interest in keeping our world safe.”

He doesn’t talk of how he _can_ do this, unlike his boyfriend Percy Weasley. He is working too closely under the Minister’s nose to slip into the dining room of a vigilante group. Yet nonetheless, Percy does care about not having an egomaniacal racist rule their wizarding world.

No one has hexed him yet, so Oliver thinks he is doing alright.

Mad-Eye Moody is the first to speak up. “A lot of people your age seem to be buying into the Ministry propaganda that Dumbledore and Potter are raving lunatics. What makes you so different, Wood?”

“Well,” Oliver says, shifting in his seat. “The majority of my year level are too old to have interacted with Harry in any meaningful way. I’m the outlier, having been his Quidditch Captain three years in a row.”

“Too young to remember the first war clearly,” Professor Lupin says, in a clear, concise manner, his brows pulling together. “Too old to be close with Harry. Too recently graduated and too many mishaps in their last years at Hogwarts to truly trust Albus Dumbledore.”

Oliver nods, as numerous quills scratch against parchment. “That’s the gist of it, I’d say. There are a few people I can discretely reach out to, like Penelope Clearwater - she was petrified - but overall, my demographic will be notoriously hard to recruit. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t advocate for Harry’s side among my friends.”

Tonks speaks up, her hair mid-shift or perhaps just a remarkably bold statement, an alarming mix of bright turquoise and flaming ginger. “People won’t question you because of your connection to Harry, and the league is rather lax about following Ministry protocol. I see where you're coming from.”

Oliver raises an eyebrow. “That’s exactly it.”

The rest of the meeting carries on, in a mix of formality and quickly covered laughs, and Oliver thinks this is one of the best - if not the most dangerous - decisions he’s ever made in his life.

This meeting, for Oliver, is the first page in a completely different chapter of his life, all because he trusts Harry Potter and his cries that Voldemort has returned.

.

Suffice to say, it is mildly awkward having lunch with your boyfriend’s estranged family, sans boyfriend, and also sans his family’s knowledge that you’re fucking their estranged son.

Sirius Black, who had not been at the earlier meeting for reasons apparently related to a clingy hippogriff, is now sitting next to Oliver. Professor Lupin had discretely filled him in on the whole _situation_ before inviting him to headquarters.

Learning that his boyfriend’s ex-pet rat murdered 12 muggles was an experience, in summary.

“So,” Oliver says, mopping up some pumpkin soup with a bread roll, “how’d you become an animagus, Sirius?”

Lunchtime is very clearly a not-Order business zone, as not-quite fourteen-year-old Ginny Weasley sits across from him.

Sirius looks absolutely haggard: though his long wavy black hair has been washed and brushed, his face remains sunken and hollow. “It helps Remus during his transformations.”

“Ah,” Oliver says, only slightly awkwardly. “Makes sense. I got an E on my D.A.D.A. N.E.W.T., y’know? He was the best defence teacher we ever had.” 

Professor Lupin is sitting farther down the table next to Tonks and Kingsley, far away enough that he cannot hear Oliver’s cumbersome conversation nor clumsy compliments.

“Was he really?” Sirius asks, his interest peaked.

“Yeah,” Oliver says, picking up his spoon. “Perce was real relieved that we had a decent teacher for N.E.W.Ts.”

He drops his spoon back into his bowl when Ginny gives him a dirty look for daring to mention said estranged brother.

“We were roommates,” he adds, hastily, his voice dropped. “I’ll try not to set any of them off.”

Sirius snorts, shaking his head. “Considerate of you.”

“Well,” he says, trying and failing to change the topic smoothly. “I’m a reserve keeper for Puddlemere United. I know Harry from when I was his Quidditch Captain for three years. He’s not the type to lie to try and grab attention.”

Sirius studies him for a second, his grey eyes cold as steel and just as unnerving as thunder clouds. “Glad to have you,” Sirius says, right before all the bowls are collected by Mrs Weasley with a wave of her wand.

Well. At least lunch wasn’t a complete disaster.

.

Oliver sticks around after lunch, mainly because he has nothing better to do. Percy has been pulled into a Ministry event (which he doubtlessly will complain about endlessly after he returns home) and his next practice isn’t until tomorrow morning.

That’s how he winds up alone with Sirius Black in the downstairs’ relatively habitable living room.

‘Habitable’ meaning here, of course, a place without an infestation of doxies but still filthy enough that if Percy was here, he would faint on the spot.

Entertaining an ex-convict trapped in his clearly detested family home is _different_ , to say the least.

Somehow, Sirius eventually picks up on the thread Oliver dropped earlier: namely, his familiarity with the black sheep alternatively known as Percy Weasley.

“Do you still keep in touch with Percy Weasley?” Sirius asks, idly. “His siblings haven’t exactly been singing his praises, and I was wondering if I could see a different angle of him.” He flashes Oliver a bright smile, which is only a little deranged. 

“I do,” Oliver replies, carefully. “Why?”

Sirius glares into the swirling depths of his butterbeer. “I was a family outcast myself. Different reasons, obviously - but still. And curiosity. Boredom. What have you.” A dismissive wave of his hand.

“Well,” Oliver says, hesitantly, “I live with him, actually. Don’t tell the Weasleys that - they’d have my head on a pike in seconds.”

He wished he was being merely hyperbolic, but. He remembers the vicious words of the howlers that had left scorch marks on their linoleum kitchen bench, stark against the baby pink, and, more disconcertingly, the hurt cutting across Percy’s face.

_I can’t blindly follow a man whose negligence led to my sister almost dying! Can’t they see that? The Ministry, at least, is not one person against the entire world._

“I’ll keep your head on,” Sirius assures him, before frowning. “Does Percy know you’re joining the Order?”

Oliver pauses for a moment, wonders if he should really share this information, before remembering that Sirius is cooped up in his house and can’t exactly go around spilling the beans to the Minister. “Yes, actually. His opinion is ‘you are a grown adult, and clearly something is going on, but don’t be stupid’.”

Sirius taps his fingers against his glass absentmindedly. “Interesting, considering his family spat.”

“Well.” Oliver hesitates, before powering on: he thinks if anyone else is to share Percy’s scepticism and distrust of Albus Dumbledore, it may be the man who was partially left to rot in Azkaban for twelve years because the aforementioned man didn’t push for his trial, if Professor Lupin is to be believed. “He doesn’t like Dumbledore, but he doesn’t mind the resistance. His uncles were killed by Death Eaters, you know.”

“Fabian and Gideon,” Sirius says, slowly, softly. “They were great blokes.”

Oliver hurries on with his explanation. He's never been great with death. “Well, in our fifth year, there was the Quirrell incident where Ron wound up in the Hospital Wing several times. In our sixth - and I think this was the straw, or rather straws, that broke the camel’s back - there were two incidents, actually. First of all, there was Dumbledore’s lack of response when Percy raised his concerns regarding Harry’s family.” 

Sirius’ interest is clearly peaked by the mere mention of Harry, his eyes brightening. “Go on.”

Oliver continues, trying to not look too nervous, or accidentally reveal his romantic entanglement with Percy in his rather extensive explanation of his actions, beyond his miffed siblings’ grievances. “Well, that Summer, the twins and Ron rescued Harry from his aunt’s place. There were bars on his window, and Percy said he was awfully thin when he initially came to the Burrow. Percy was also concerned about the threadbare and ill-fitting state of Harry’s clothes, considering Fred mentioning off-handly that Harry’s uncle had a really expensive car and lived in an awfully nice neighbourhood. Also, Harry had received none of his letters before he came to the Burrow. I wrote him a letter, but it was returned a few weeks later all mangled and stuff, without a reply.”

Oliver takes a deep breath, as Sirius’ eyes glint dangerously.

“Percy was worried that Harry was being abused - at the very least severely mistreated - by his aunt and uncle. We were only sixteen at the time, and he was only a Prefect, but the day we went back to Hogwarts - after he scolded Ron for flying a car to school with Harry in tow - he booked a meeting with Dumbledore. He raised his concerns, said his parents would be glad to look after Harry for the summers provided his expenses were covered by his trust. Dumbledore, according to Percy, smiled, offered him a sherbet lemon, and said he’d deal with it.”

Oliver looks away from Sirius, whose manic glint is becoming a little too much to handle. “When Percy ran into Harry the next summer at Diagon Alley and overheard how he ran away from his relatives after accidentally blowing up his uncle’s sister, well. He lost all his respect for Dumbledore.”

The tension thickens.

“I hate that Harry was left there,” Sirius says, a fierce bite to his words.

Oliver nods, biting his lip. Harry had always looked unusually scrawny, had always flinched away from any friendly roughhousing.

“Second thing,” Oliver continues, leaning forward, “was the whole Chamber incident. Ginny almost died. So did Ron. Percy's incredibly protective over his siblings. So." A deep breath. "You can see why he’s not exactly falling at Dumbledore’s feet.”

“You know all this too,” Sirius points out. He is shaking, clearly disturbed by the reminder of the abuse Harry still faces. “So why are you here?”

Oliver shrugs. “Just because I don’t put Dumbledore on a pedestal and think he has a shit record in keeping students safe doesn’t mean that I don’t think Voldemort’s back. Unlike Percy, I haven’t been pushed to my limit.”

"His limit?" Sirius puts down his butterbeer. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well." Oliver hesitates, looks at the door, before casting a quick _muffliato_. "He's teased an awful lot by his siblings, feels like all his achievements are mocked. He had a terrible time with the Crouch fiasco, thrown under the bus by his whole department, and was awfully anxious about losing his job, particularly because it was helping to ease things, covering things like textbooks and the like for his younger siblings."

“So walking out on his family sounds out of character,” Sirius says, comprehension dawning in his eyes, “and he was in hot water, the scapegoat, for the Ministry’s incompetence.”

"Exactly,” Oliver says, shaking his head. “I don't think Percy's naive but we are still young. He suspected an ulterior motive when Fudge offered him the job after such a scandal, but he also thought that he did his due work in covering so diligently for Crouch to deserve such a position. He was really insulted when his father insinuated that he was hired only to spy on his family."

“So,” Sirius replies, slowly, ticking off each point with his fingers, “he adored his family, distrusted Dumbledore, was scared about losing his job, so he decided to walk out when his loyalty to his family was outright questioned?”

A sad smile falls upon Oliver’s face. “Exactly.”

Sirius nods, picking up his butterbeer. “I get it.” His eyes glaze over. “My brother was only eighteen when he died. I hope this doesn’t last.”

“Me too,” Oliver says, softly. 

Silence falls upon them, and for once, Oliver can breathe.

.

Sirius leaves shortly after the end of their conversation, off to feed the hippogriff who lived a few floors up, as you do.

Oliver is now sitting with the Weasleys, plus one sulking Potter, which is decidedly more awkward than conversing with an Azkaban escapee, if only in Oliver’s head. 

“Did they put the Quidditch pitch back to normal?” Oliver asks, now sitting on an overstuffed armchair with a grotesque floral pattern. “After everything.”

Fred shrugs, a scowl darkening his face. “They did. After everything fell to pieces.”

Oliver, noting the rage flickering in Harry’s eyes, hurriedly changes the topic. “There’s a friendly match Friday evening between the reserves of Puddlemere and the Harpies, if you want to come. It’s a sickle entry.”

Conveniently, Percy has a Ministry function that night, so no awkward reunions should occur.

Thankfully, the scowl fades from Fred’s face as he shares a somewhat excited grin with George.

“Sure,” George says, finally relaxing into the sofa he’s sharing with Ginny, whose grim look has been replaced by one of excitement. “Haven’t been to a Quidditch match in ages.”

“I’ve got to get through Mum first,” Ron grumbles. “You too can at least _go out_ without a chaperone.” 

“Well,” Oliver says, hastily. “There will be some security at the match. I’m sure Mrs Weasley will let you go, Ron.”

Ron shares a dark look with Harry, who is the next to speak up. “I’d love to come, Oliver, but.” Harry grimaces. “It’ll be a challenge to get out of this place.”

“Well,” Oliver says, shifting in his chair. “It’s going to be broadcasted on the radio, so at the very least, there’s that. But it’s not too dangerous.”

Tension settles into the room like a blanket of impending doom.

“Anyway,” he says, changing the topic once again. “Any news?”

Ginny scowls. “I’m sure you’ve heard about _Percy_ ,” she says, her voice dripping with derision.

 _Yeah, he turned up at my door one night with his bags in tow and asked if he could extend his stay. Indefinitely._ This is what Oliver wisely does not say.

“Ah, yes,” he replies, carefully avoiding eye contact with anyone lest they know his true relationship with said estranged brother. “It’s a shame.”

“I know you were mates and all in school,” Fred says, picking up the conversation, his eyes glinting with barely restrained anger.

Oliver puts up his hands in mock defence before he can continue. “Woah, mate. I’ve heard it all before, thanks.”

He had discussed Percy with Sirius Black, but he could _not_ do the same with Percy’s slightly more enraged and invested siblings.

Thankfully, Fred doesn’t look terribly upset. “Yeah, don’t know why we’d want to discuss that prat anyway,” he mutters.

Oliver internally winces. “So,” he says, changing the topic once again, hopefully to something light and happy and not depressing once and for all. “Do you want to play Exploding Snap?”

When there is a resounding chorus of affirmations, Oliver finally relaxes.

.

By the time Oliver returns to his flat, the sun has fallen, blanketing the world in inky darkness.

Oliver tries, and fails, to unclench his jaw.

There are so many fucking shades of grey that it makes Oliver dizzy, but in this world, this world, you wouldn’t be a fool to be otherwise mistaken.

Gryffindor or Slytherin. Dumbledore or Ministry. Good or Evil.

And all the in-between, all the people who don’t neatly fall into one clear-cut category, are rejected mercilessly.

He unlocks the door with a wave of his wand.

Percy is not yet home: the apartment is dark, almost eerily quiet after all the clamour of Grimmauld.

The lights flicker on.

Oliver has chosen to join the Order of the Phoenix because he can. No one particularly cares what a reserve keeper does in his off-time.

Percy, on the other hand, has a multitude of reasons not to join, primarily because it requires placing boundless trust in one Albus Dumbledore.

He doesn’t exactly place blind trust in Fudge either, the Minister who scattered Dementors across Hogwarts’ grounds, but he does put more weight in his government, his workplace, than chasing what could be mere delusions.

When Oliver asked for Percy’s true opinion on this whole mess, he had said:

 _Well,_ Percy had said, pushing back his glasses. _It’s certainly plausible, and there have been a series of recent incidents that suggest a rising in the cult of blood purity. We should do something, even if Voldemort has not risen, which without hard evidence feels as likely as him being six feet under, but the Ministry is set in its way, and Dumbledore holds his cards too close to his chest._ He had then sighed. _Mass panic should not be needlessly incited, but nor should we do nothing._

There had been a pause, a momentary second of yawning silence.

Percy’s final words on the subject were: _If this situation continues to deteriorate, I will be more helpful if I’m positioned well in the Ministry rather than following the words of a flighty mastermind like the rest of my blindly loyal family._

He then had kissed Oliver on the cheek. _Of course, love, it’s your prerogative if you want to join Dumbledore’s secret organisation. I know you prefer the hands-on approach._

Oliver is drawn out of his recollection by the sharp snap of apparition in the next room.

“Good evening, Perce,” he calls out, hastily turning on the kettle with a flick of his wand. “How was the Ministry?”

Percy Weasley, the man of the hour, steps into the kitchen and walks up to Oliver. “Absolutely spiffing.” He leans in, leaving a brief kiss in his wake that brightens Oliver’s day. “What about the Order?”

The dryness of Percy’s manner is practically scathing, gaze carefully neutral behind perfectly polished glasses.

“Their headquarters could do with a bit of redecorating,” Oliver says, turning away from Percy to summon two mugs. “But interesting.”

Percy hums, discarding his tweed jacket onto the back of one of their wooden chairs. “Confidential, is it?”

Oliver pours steaming water into the two mugs, adding tea bags before answering: “To an extent.”

Oliver does not mention seeing Percy’s family, and Percy does not ask.

“Professor Lupin was looking well,” Oliver offers, dumping the tea bags into the sink.

Percy takes his cup of tea. “That’s good to hear.” He places the cup onto the table behind him. “I hope he’s been able to find a good job. Madam Umbridge has been absolutely brutal in her legislation.”

“Was she there tonight?”

“Yeah,” Percy says, shuddering. “They are discussing sending her to Hogwarts as the next D.A.D.A. teacher. Now, I’m not Dumbledore’s biggest fan, but those poor kids.”

Oliver sighs, running a hand through his already ruffled hair. “They’ve had worse than a pompous witch.”

“Bitch, more likely,” Percy mutters darkly. “Worst thing is, the Ministry has to present a united front, so it means I need to act like I approve of her.”

Umbridge opposed the Marriage Equality Act about a decade ago. Suffice to say, Percy is not her biggest fan.

“At least you won’t have to see her,” Oliver says, in a fakely cheerful tone.

Percy smiles, but it is tight. “Small mercies.” He shakes his head. “Thanks for the tea. I’ll be decompressing in the living room if you need me.”

 _Need_ can be such an abstract concept because if Oliver was to be truthful, he would say he always needs Percy, but he nods, too tired to argue semantics late on Saturday night.

The click of Percy’s shoes. The snick of the door handle. The falling patter of rain.

Oliver takes out the slip of crumpled parchment out of his pocket and sets it aflame, watching it crumble into ash.

Peacetime is over.

**Author's Note:**

> all comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc, are seen and appreciated!
> 
> thanks for reading <3


End file.
